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Bzzzt!
The doorbell. Thank God.
“Coming!” I yelled, springing off the cushion so fast the popcorn toppled into his lap and my shin smacked the corner of the ottoman. The flood of relief through my veins was so strong the pain barely registered.
“You alright?”
“Fine, Prince Charming. No need to rise any further on my behalf.” I’d already hobbled fifteen feet away when realization dawned and Keith dragged my favorite throw over the sight. “It’s probably Lisa. Our garage door’s on the fritz.”
Bzzzt!
Had Lisa had been standing outside, she would’ve added a few choice lyrics to each subsequent ring. I leaned on my tiptoes and checked the peephole.
Cobwebs blurred the frame of a man with a badge on his hip.
From the reflection in the hall mirror, I watched Keith lift the blanket, frown, and stay put. “Who’s there, Marcy?”
“Police,” I guessed, undoing the lock and bumping the porch to the top of my spring cleaning list. Hidden from interior view by etched window film, the sidelights were spattered with old webs, decayed leaves and moths that spun like acrobats underneath the dusty porch light. Between grad school and property taxes, I’d been so busy affording the house I’d slacked on maintenance.
I glanced over my shoulder. If I had enough cash to both extend the summer program’s life and prep my house for the market, another year here wouldn’t sting quite so badly.
“You know you don't have to answer.”
“Could be important,” I insisted, re-buttoning the top of my baggy, paint-splattered smock.
I checked for my cats, then opened the door and came nose-to-chest with the man I'd been hoping Keith would be: tall, muscular, tan and dusted by the five o'clock shadow of a long day. But it was his eyes (and, being perfectly honest, the wine) that stretched my first impression of this stranger from ho-hum to memorable: such a feral shade of amber they were it gave the impression that, though groomed and impeccably dressed, he was not a man entirely domesticized. He wore a brown leather jacket, a gray vest over a dark button-down, and jeans. In a smooth motion he shifted his jacket back, all the better to observe both a holstered gun and a badge reading Lynham County, Texas.
“Uh, hi,” I said most eloquently, hiding my garlic breath behind my hand.
“'Evening, ma'am.” A drop of the honeyed South sweetened his tone. With a ballpoint pen he tipped the brim of a weathered brown stetson. His other hand gripped a notepad. “Sheriff Caelan Harlowe, acting on behalf of the United States Marshal’s Services. Sorry to interrupt your evening.”
“It's fine. You're fine.” I leaned my head against the flaking white door trim. “But you should know I'm a mess.”
“Bad timing?”
Smiling, I eased the door to a thin crack. “Perfect.”
“. . . But you're a mess?” he prompted after a polite wait, waving his hat toward my attire.
“I'm a mess? Oh! Shit, no. No, no, no. I meant miss. Miss Marcy Davins.” With all the dignity red cheeks would allow, I brushed crumbs off my braid. “Ma'am sounds so old. I'm not old. I mean, old enough . . .”
“Old enough to vote. Yes, certainly you are, Miss Davins,” the sheriff said with mild amusement.
Crossing my arms, I considered my current ability to make a glib recovery. Two seconds later, up went my hands. “Fuck it. I'm at least three glasses of wine deep tonight. Let’s start over. You’re a sheriff?”
“Yes, Miss Davins.”
“Well, then, may I press you for a favor, sheriff?” I lowered my voice. “Seems I'm a miss caught in a mess.”
For just a moment in the porch light his face went still and quiet. I knew in an instant he was judging me, steadied my resolve, and kept my eyes square on his. You've got nothing to hide, I told myself against the pulse of my heart in my throat. Nothing worse than garlic breath. But this man standing hat in hand before me was a creature of intelligent authority. He could find something if he wanted to.
He knew it. I knew it. We stood regarding one another with the grim curiosity of fox meeting hound, as if some budding spell of caution spread over us like spring sweeping now over the Connecticut Valley: a promise of warmth and a mindfulness of frost.
A breeze slipped between us, sending the husks of last autumn’s spiders into a twitching, shivering frenzy. Then the sheriff set his hat on the rail post and smiled.
“Be my pleasure to assist you, Miss Davins.”
“Marcy!”
